One Less Bell To Answer
by SilverRavenStar
Summary: For Captain Swan AU Month. Two-shot, complete. Killian and Emma Jones used to be each other's world. College sweethearts, they've been married for ten years with two children. But their son Henry has gone missing, and it's driving them apart, and down a darker path than ever before. Can they find each other again now? Or ever?
1. Chapter 1

**One Less Bell To Answer [Part 1]**

**For Captain Swan AU Month and the love of my life Nini. **Killian and Emma Jones used to be each other's world. College sweethearts, they've been married for ten years with two children. But their son Henry has gone missing, and it's driving them apart, and down a darker path than ever before. Can they find each other again now? Or ever?

* * *

She'd finally done it.

Become one of those moms in the supermarket standing by the corkboard at the front, rummaging through the homemade flyers for Spanish lessons and sofas for sale and rediscover your authentic self with tantric meditation, and looking to see if anyone had torn off strips from the poster, the one she'd stapled up two weeks ago and checked faithfully every day since. _**Have you seen this child?**_Her son's fifth-grade class photo, smiling at the camera. Henry David Jones, age ten. Height, 4'11. Weight, eighty pounds. Last seen May twelfth, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, getting off the bus from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School, wearing plaid shirt, jeans, and school blazer, carrying a brown backpack. Anyone with information on his whereabouts was urged to contact the Cambridge Police Department straightaway. Beneath were the numbers. Theirs, hers, Killian's. Home and cell.

None of them had been taken.

Emma blew out an unsteady breath, battling her brewing frustration – _frustration _barely sounded like enough of a word to encompass the feelings that had been raging inside her since her son had vanished into thin air. She'd reported him missing when he was three hours late and none of his friends' parents had called, and had spent every day since savagely second-guessing herself for waiting even that long. The night spent in the police station, trying to arrange a babysitter for Milah, calling Killian at work, not being able to get hold of him (she could _never _get hold of him these days) being assailed with terrifying statistics about the likelihood of finding a missing child outside the first 24-hour window. Waiting as they compiled a potential witness list and took her statement and decided which detectives to assign. Emma, with a background in the criminal justice system herself, thought there was too much procedural bureaucratic bullshit slowing it down, was half tempted to call some of her old contacts, see if they could put out tendrils in the underworld. But when she mentioned it to the police, they'd firmly shut her down. No sense letting anybody know that they were onto them. Had to keep potential suspects off their guard.

_Off their guard. _Her son might have been kidnapped by a child sex trafficking ring, or some weirdo who had him chained up in the basement, or a bored teenager out for jollies, and the police cared about making sure the culprits were _happy? _If Emma had had her say, they would know that they had the wrath of Khan coming down on their asses and be running fucking terrified. She was a mama bear. The time when Milah was five and some dirty old man tried to pull the "I've got candy in the truck" trick. . . by the time Emma was done with him, he was begging her not to call the cops and crying and trying to tell her about his terrible childhood. She'd ignored him, of course. Had the blue take him away in handcuffs. You did not mess with her children. Full stop. The end.

Only now, of course, someone had. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Emma knuckled her hand across her face, doubtless leaving a black streak of eyeliner across her cheeks. She tugged at the shopping cart and then groped for her daughter's hand. She'd used to be fairly easygoing about letting Milah play outside by herself, but now she felt her throat closing up, her world shutting down, if she was out of sight for more than a minute. The eyes of the public felt like ants crawling on her skin. Did they know just by looking at her, that her child was missing? That she might become the sad person they'd see on true crime shows ten years from now, railing about the authorities had mishandled the case and refusing to believe that her son was gone?

"Mama?" Milah looked at her worriedly. "Are you okay?"

Emma swallowed. "I'm fine, baby."

Milah regarded her big brother's Missing poster hopefully. "Is Henry going to come home soon?"

"Yeah," Emma said, lying through her teeth. Milah was seven, she understood what was going on. She knew that her mother was down at the police department every night, that a detective had been by to dust their townhouse for potential fingerprints, that both Emma and Killian had had to endure hours of questioning so they could be ruled out as suspects. Like they were really the kind of people who would snuff their son for the hell of it. But just as when a wife went missing, they questioned the husband first, when a kid went missing, they had to grill the parents first. Apparently they'd satisfied the BPD that they weren't sadistic homicidal murderers masquerading as well-adjusted middle-class urban professionals. _Assholes._

"I miss him," Milah said sadly. "Where do you think he is?"

"I wish I knew. Believe me. More than anything. Come on."

Milah trotting behind her,Emma shoved the cart through the glass doors and into the parking lot, out to the car. She really needed to think about shopping for a new one; she'd been driving the old yellow Bug since college, and as it was at least fifteen years older than her, its departure to the great junkyard in the sky had been imminent for some time. But her entire world had gone on pause since her son's disappearance. She couldn't just page through blue books or and casually talk about leather interiors or improved gas mileage. Sometimes she could barely even get out of bed. Milah, she reminded herself. She still had to keep it together for Milah.

As for Killian. . . it would be nice to see him for more than five minutes at breakfast before he ran out and wasn't seen for the rest of the day. She'd never envisioned being a stay-at-home mom. But his job as an acquiring editor for Harvard University Press kept them comfortably well off, and it wasn't really prudent for her to be beating holy hell out of bail-jumpers with two – _one, _God – young children at home. _June Cleaver. _She'd chafed more and more at that idea, kept wanting to be something more. Couldn't help wondering if this was a punishment. A sign.

Emma's mouth vanished into a grim white line as she drove home through the leafy streets of Cambridge, kids playing on the steps or in the backyard; almost all of them were out for the summer. Looking at her husband, you might never even know their son was missing. Looking at her husband, you might not even remember the rest of them existed.

* * *

From the moment she met Killian Jones, Emma had been afraid that she was biting off more than she could chew. It was when they were both attending Boston College, him the BMOC, a confession-blog-caliber hot and charming Irish exchange student who had everyone wrapped around his little finger within an hour of setting foot on Chestnut Hill. He was doing his junior year abroad from University College Dublin, while she was a shy and socially maladroit freshman from – well, nowhere particularly. She'd aged out of the foster care system at eighteen, and was living with her boyfriend, Neal Cassidy, in a crummy apartment in Dorchester. They were a pair of troubled kids who clung to each other, not above robbing the occasional convenience store when they didn't have money for both food and rent, and it had taken a stern talking-to from the dean of students, who caught Emma lifting something at the Eagle Café, for her to really understand that if she wanted to get ahead in life, the five-finger discount had to stop. She'd worked her ass off in an undistinguished city high school to get into BC in the first place, and she decided that no thanks, she wasn't interested in coughing it up. Both this and her meeting with Killian had hastened the death knell of her relationship with Neal.

Not that she'd taken one look at Mr. I-Have-An-Irish-Accent-Perma-Stubble-And-Perfect-B lue-Eyes-I-Can-Hear-Your-Panties-Dropping and decided it was true love. Far from it. She'd spilled her drink on him in the dining hall, which was such a clichéd way to meet cute that she determinedly avoided him for the next three weeks. But something about that, her stubborn standoffishness, when normally he had girls throwing themselves at him from every point of the compass, intrigued him. He was even more persistent than her in chasing her down, getting her name and number, no many times she tried to blow him off. As if a girl like her had a chance with a guy like him. He'd just use her and lose her. After a childhood in which she was nothing more than a state-sponsored meal ticket for a long succession of dysfunctional-at-best foster families, Emma Swan was extremely wary of anything that looked too good to be true.

Still, Killian won her over. The more they got to know each other, the more they understood each other. She reminded herself that they had no future together, that he was returning to Ireland at the end of the year, would graduate and get a job over there and meet someone else. Until he announced casually that he was going to transfer here and finish up his degree at BC. He'd do that. He'd do that for her. For once in her life, someone wasn't going to leave her behind.

That, to say the least, rocked Emma's world. From there, no matter how hard she tried to put the brakes on it, the harder and faster she'd fallen for him. And he, for some inexplicable reason, was completely crazy for her. Breaking the hearts of the entire undergraduate female population, Killian Jones became a one-woman man. He squired her to football games, to parties, to campus events, to social functions. She was afraid that they were on the verge of becoming one of those couples spoken about in the same breath, _KillianandEmma, _where you didn't bother inviting only one of them because you knew the other would turn up too. She told him she needed space.

Still more surprisingly, he gave it to her. He backed off. But he didn't date anyone else, even though he had more than ample opportunity. He waited for her.

And she, for her part, had never loved anything or anyone in her life more than she loved him.

Eventually, she had to admit it. That she couldn't exist without him. That for a tough, strong, independent young woman who'd spent her entire life without anyone to hold her hand, who could kick ass and take names with the best of them, without him she was incomplete. They just functioned better together, a team. The world made more sense with him. Everything did.

Killian graduated, got a job in Boston, stayed around. She had been planning to study abroad herself, but ended up doing all four years at BC because she didn't want to leave him, afraid he'd have vanished into thin air if she did. He popped the question on her senior night, and they were married that summer, in a simple but elegant ceremony at the seaside. Henry was born eight months later, a fact that likely hadn't gone unnoticed. Milah, three years after.

For most of her adult life, therefore, Emma had operated as one half of a tightly coordinated duo. She and Killian hadn't had many friends; aside from the fact that she didn't trust many people, she never felt the need. They were each other's friend, rival, partner, confidante, soul mate, lover, everything. The sex with him was mind-blowing. They'd started a few months after they met, in what was supposed to be a no-strings-attached one-night stand so she could get him out of her head, and never stopped. They never went more than a few days without. They'd done it on the beach, in the car, in the movie theater, a thousand other places where the possibility of being caught was half the thrill. And just as much or more in their own bed at home, waiting to make sure the kids were asleep, happily rocking each other's world. None of the perfunctory nookie-on-a-schedule. If Emma usually had that just-got-laid glow, it was completely authentic. She and Killian adored each other, and each other's bodies, and weren't shy about expressing it however they pleased. Toys and fantasies and kink. He had a thing for handcuffs and leather. Roleplay where he was a dark and dashing pirate captain and she was his saucy blonde wench, the spoils of conquest. Or where she was a ruling princess and he was her captive. They went back and forth at domination and going on top. If you could think of it, they'd done it.

And yet, it wasn't just sex. They truly were each other's world. She had never needed anyone, would never need anyone, the way she needed him. And yet. . . and yet. . .

More and more since Henry's disappearance, and the way Killian had all but vanished from the face of the earth, Emma had begun, hauntingly, to wonder if she loved her husband too much. If she'd given up too much for him, if the way they depended on each other had become sick, unhealthy, unsustainable. She was doing everything, being everything for Milah, and she wasn't getting a damn bit of support from him. As if their life together had been charmed, until it wasn't. And when this one pillar came down, the rest of the temple came with it.

She didn't know if that was the only cause, or if she should look for another, if she wanted there to be another. The facts were inescapable. Since Henry's disappearance, she and Killian had become all but strangers, roommates who barely had a word to say to each other, or passive-aggressively baiting each other when they did. As if they could no longer even stand the sight. If he was going to leave, she just wished he'd go. Not even bother to come home. Stay at a hotel. Spare that daily agony of silence and missed opportunities and broken hearts.

Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, Emma had to suddenly slam on the brakes as a gang of preteen boys ran out in front of the Bug, giggling. She swore under her breath, heart racing. Maybe losing her own son should have made her feel more guilty about these things, but all she could think about was how _their_ mothers didn't have to worry about their punk-ass prepubescent offspring, because she'd stopped in time. These kids were fine. _Bastards._

Stewing, she turned down their tree-lined avenue. Parking wasn't _quite _as much at an unobtainable premium here in Cambridge as it was in the Back Bay or Beacon Hill, but it was still pretty rare to find a spot on the street, and their driveway, seeing as they lived in a townhouse, was shared with their neighbors. And just to cap off this day, someone had taken her usual place, someone –

Wait. _Killian_. It was Killian's car.

"Oh, _now _he comes home before nine PM?" Emma growled, not quite under her breath, as she made another circuit of the block. Finally she waited as a minivan was pulling out across the street, then nipped neatly parallel into its spot and jerked the brake. She turned to Milah and took a deep breath. "Can you run into the house and get your dad to help with the groceries, please?"

Milah obediently scuttled, and Emma began hauling out the plastic sacks. She had carried the first load up and into the kitchen, dropping them with relief on the island, and was about to go out for another by the time Milah reappeared. "He says one second."

Emma shrugged, went back to the car, got another load, and carried it in. Then the third, which also happened to be the last. She was just shoving the vegetables into the crisper when Killian appeared in the doorway, running a hand through his rumpled dark hair. "Needed help, lass?"

"Nice of you to drop in," Emma said acidly. "It's all right, I've gotten it taken care of. Now."

He looked confused. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting to run into a wall of wifely aggression on first appearance. "Emma – look, I've got the rest of the afternoon off, I thought we could – "

"So if they hadn't explicitly sent you home, you'd still be there, huh?" Emma jerked the fridge open and began throwing things in the drawer. "You know what, actually. I think I've got this. How about you get back and do whatever important stuff I interrupted you from?"

"Emma." He took a step. "I think we need to talk."

"Now?" Her voice was almost a scream. She didn't want to do this, she didn't want to come apart, but it was too late. "Yes, Killian. We need to talk. In fact, we needed to talk two weeks ago. I've needed you, I have needed you so terribly, and where have you been? Hiding at work like you're a vampire and the sunlight might fucking kill you. I've been completely _by myself _holding this together, I don't think I'd even see you at all if the police hadn't needed to talk to both of us! And you're just going to – "

"Emma, I've been doing my damndest, all right? I've been getting in contact with old friends of mine, seeing if I can't put the bastards who took our son on their bloody – "

"Oh, you mean what the cops just told me not to do? Get a big neon sign and announce to them that we're coming?" Emma's fist clenched on the refrigerator door. "That's great, Killian. That's really great. Brownie points for you. But instead of single-mindedly hunting down the perpetrators and planning to take total vengeance, maybe you should have – "

"Really?" One dark eyebrow went up and cocked, and his accent became lower, broader, rich and lethal, a sure sign that his temper was about to go off with a bang. "Really, love? You're going to find fault with me now for fighting to find Henry the only way I know how? I've not just been sitting on my arse at work, you know. I've been making calls, meetings, I – "

"_Really?" _she echoed. Her own voice was getting higher and higher, strained. "And yet you never told me _any _of this? You just let me think you were off hiding, running away from me, our family, when instead you were, I don't know, organizing this entire black-market investigation? You probably haven't told the cops a thing about it, have you?"

"The police don't need to know, they'll do it their way and I'll do it my way – and since when have you known me to avoid what – "

"_I'm not a mind-reader, Jones!"_ She slammed the cupboard shut so hard that it rattled and whirled to face him, cheeks blazing. "Don't you dare blame me for thinking you'd just cut and run! I'm sure the Boston police are real appreciative of all this! If we could just find the people who did it and take them down, that would be great, wouldn't it? But the law doesn't work like that, the world doesn't work like that, and now that you've gone behind my back and undermined our entire – "

"I don't think you'd be saying that if I'm the one to – "

"Yeah, you're such a hero, you're a big man, you – "

They were almost nose to nose, screaming, and it was only in the echoes that Emma heard the crying from the doorway. Milah was standing there, staring at them. Her long dark curls were in her face as she cringed against the wall, then turned and ran.

Killian and Emma stared at each other for a moment longer, then backed away as if in the presence of highly charged explosives. "All right," he said grimly. "For the welfare of us both. . . Emma. . . I think we need to take a break."

"What?" The word felt like a grenade launcher through the chest. _"What?"_

An ugly sneer lifted his lip, turning him into someone she had never seen before. "I think we need separate spaces. That's what you want, isn't it? Me to butt out and stop fucking up whatever it is you're doing, though I'm not quite sure, to get Henry back and – "

"No!" she screamed. "You son of a _bitch! _How _dare you_ imply that I'm not doing everything I can to find him and bring him home! I wanted you with me, I wanted us together, I wanted us facing this as a team – but you know what. If that's what _you _want, feel _fucking free. _Get out. Get out right now."

He remained staring at her, that sneer still locked in place, a dark and violent and dangerous man, a stranger, until she wondered in that mad instant just who she had married, who she was sharing her life with, who she had just lost. Then, with the maximum of icy courtesy, he gave her a stiff little bow, like an old-fashioned gentleman. He left the kitchen, and she heard him going upstairs, pausing to say something in a deep reassuring rumble to Milah. Footsteps thumping around their bedroom. He came back down a few minutes later with a packed suitcase and his computer bag slung across his shoulder. "Well," he growled. "If you're going to beg me on your knees not to leave, lass, now's the time."

"I'm not getting on my knees for you _ever again." _She couldn't decide whether to put as much space between them as possible, or close the distance and slap him. She had never wanted to hurt someone as much as she wanted to hurt him. Never wanted to hold him so hard. To just fly apart and shatter. "In fact, I don't think I want to see you ever again."

He jerked as if she had in fact stabbed him. Then he wheeled around. "I'll get a hotel room downtown," he informed the ceiling, in a cold, dead voice. "If that's what you want, lass, no point getting in the way. I'm sure I can find the name of a good lawyer for you."

And with that, he pulled the front door open, stepped through it, and jerked it shut behind him so hard that the glass pane broke into a thousand pieces.

* * *

Emma slid down the wall to the kitchen floor and started to cry.

It was exactly how she didn't want to deal with the situation, the last she would have expected or tolerated of herself. What she should have done was to run out after him and slash his tires. No. No, she shouldn't. She should have tried to call him back for a civil and rational adult discussion. No. Fuck the bastard. Oh God, she didn't mean it. She needed him, her other half, her soulmate and partner. She was nothing without him. But no. She was a grown-ass independent woman who was _not _going to fly to pieces over a man. Even if it was her husband and the father of her children and the love of her life who'd just walked out that door and –

Her spinning thoughts wouldn't stop. Her shoulders shook as she silently wept. She buried her face in her hands, trying to compose herself, and went completely and beyond all get-out to pieces, until she heard a patter of footsteps in the doorway. "Mama?" Milah said tremulously. "Mama, please, please don't cry. Please don't. You're making me sad."

Emma choked down another gulping gasp and wiped her eyes, hating herself for making her daughter even more upset. "I'm sorry," she croaked. "I'm sorry, baby. I just. . . I just. . ."

Milah eyed her worriedly. "Daddy's coming back, isn't he? He's not vanishing like Henry, is he? I heard you yelling and you were really angry."

Emma's throat closed. "I. . . sometimes. . . sometimes adults say bad things and they don't always mean all of them, okay? He loves you and he'd never leave you. We just both really want to find your brother and things got a little. . . overheated."

Milah, reassured, sat down next to Emma and put her head on her mother's shoulder. Emma put an arm around her and inhaled a jagged breath, one and then another, as somehow, even now, the world kept turning. They sat like that for some time. Then, out in the foyer, the front door opened and footsteps crossed the hall.

Emma's pulse began to speed up, and she scrambled upright, not wanting Killian to find her like this, not looking as wrecked as she felt – she'd meet him on her own terms, not huddling in the corner. He could damn well apologize, but she'd forgive him, fess up herself, and then they'd –

"Oh my God," said Ruby Lucas, viewing the scene with some concern. "Is everything okay?"

_Oh. _Emma tried to control the sensation as if the bottom of her stomach was crashing out. She'd almost forgotten. Ruby, her neighbor from down the street and one female friend, came over every day around this time to babysit Milah while Emma went to the police precinct headquarters and got updated on the Henry situation. Ruby was a bit flighty and tended to teach Milah about things she was much too young for, like _Sex and the City _and _Friends _and makeup and boys, but she had a heart of gold, and had rearranged her entire schedule at the diner where she waited tables in order to be available in the evenings. At the moment, she was looking worried, platform heels clicking on the parquet as she knelt down. "Emma? What's wrong?"

Emma gently urged Milah to her feet and told her to run upstairs and find some toys to play with for tonight. When she was sure that her daughter was gone, she turned back to Ruby and said shakily, "I don't know if Killian and I just split up."

"Oh my God!" Ruby said again. Both hands flew to her mouth. "What _happened?"_

"It was. . . I don't even know. It was some little thing and then it just blew up in our faces, everything we've been avoiding, everything we. . ." Emma could feel tears pricking her eyes again. "We said some pretty horrible things to each other and then he said we needed to take a break, just out of the blue, and I screamed at him that if he thought that, to get out and he. . . did. I don't even know what just happened. I feel like. . . I don't even. . . I don't. . ."

Ruby put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. "Oh no. You and Killian didn't break up. Really. I mean, you're the couple that if _you _can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us? People don't get divorced just because of a fight! He'll come around."

Emma flinched. _Divorced. _It lay there like a live grenade, heavy and horrible in the air, something she hadn't wanted to think about, much less acknowledge. But what if that was what he meant, what he wanted, when he said they needed a break, that he'd try to think of a good lawyer? "I just. . . with Henry gone, now him. . . I can't do this, Ruby. I cannot lose my family!"

"Shhh. It's okay." Ruby, looking alarmed, crouched down next to her. "You know, I read a study about this. How parents of missing children often become estranged and have problems in their relationship because they're having trouble dealing with the guilt and the feelings of betrayal and things like that. So I think you just have to deal with it and try to make the best of it and maybe let him spend tonight at the hotel to cool down and call him tomorrow? He'll probably feel as horrible about it as you. I know you both want what's best for Henry. I know it's really hard all around. But it'll be all right. I promise."

At that, Emma's eyes welled with tears again, but for a different reason. "Thanks, Ruby. I'm so sorry. I just. . . I didn't expect. . ."

"Of course not," Ruby said comfortingly. "Nobody wants to deal with their son vanishing and their husband leaving them in the same two weeks. I mean come on! Throw a girl a bone! But you just go down to the station and maybe get a drink on the way home if you need to, and then call Killian tomorrow. Okay?"

"Sure." Emma rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, grabbing her purse and keys, just as Milah came trotting back downstairs. Emma gave her daughter a brief kiss on the head and a brave smile, then headed outside, into the almost-summer evening.

It smelled so luscious. So green. So hopeful.

She had never felt so utterly hopeless.

* * *

As usual, the precinct captain had nothing new to report. No leads had turned up, the school bus driver hadn't changed his story once and definitely was above suspicion, nobody associated with the case seemed to have a tip or a sudden return of memory, and there hadn't been any sudden activity in some of the child-trafficking rings they had undercover plants in. They were of course continuing to review all potential avenues, and felt certain there'd soon be a break. They continued to caution her against doing anything reckless.

_Reckless. _As Emma walked out of the station, that was in fact the only thing she felt like doing. Wanted more than ever to damn the torpedoes. Maybe she should call Killian now, see if he'd forgiven her yet, if she'd forgiven him, they could hunt Henry together. . . but if he hadn't walked out on her for daring to ask that he be with her, he'd have known about this himself. She owed him jackshit. If he really cared about their children, if he really cared about her, he had a funny God damn way of showing it. Milah was already terrified that her father wouldn't return, that their family would be broken apart for good. . .

Emma's lips set. She had started on her way back to the car, but instead she veered around and started to walk. It didn't take her more than two blocks to find a good bar; Cambridge, a college town to the core, never fell down on the job when it came to supplying booze. It was still fairly early, and the stools were mostly empty. She slid into one and ordered the first stiff drink that came to mind. To fight her feelings of guilt, she reminded herself that Ruby had encouraged her to do this if she needed a little liquid therapy, that she'd only have one and then go home.

It grew darker. The bar slowly began to fill up as Emma continued to sit there, staring into her glass, nursing it down a few sips at a time. She dug out her phone and thumbed a quick text to Ruby, letting her know she might be late, and then hesitated, wondering if calling Killian here, now, was a good idea. She desperately wanted to hear his voice, she craved it, but –

"Well, well, dearie. That's quite a long face. Something the matter?"

Emma's hackles raised, her spine stiffened. She didn't recognize the voice, thought it was some lame attempt to flirt with her – she hadn't gone for the losers in bars in, well, forever – and angrily held up her left hand, with its wedding band and the diamond engagement ring, even as she currently wanted to punch the man who had given it to her. "Married. Buzz off."

"Oh no. I think you misunderstand my intentions." This guy – _weirdo –_ slid onto the stool next to hers. He was short and slight, with shaggy brown-grey hair and a soft Scottish accent. "My name's Robert Gold. I'm the sort of man who deals with difficult problems. And you're having quite a problem, aren't you, Mrs. Jones? Missing lad and all?"

Emma jerked upright and stared at him, wondering if she might have to whip some of her old bail-bondswoman skills out of the bag if he got any creepier. "How the hell do you know my name?"

"I've seen your boy's face on the news, you know. It's been quite a case. And I have a soft spot for parents missing their children. My own son ran away from home, you know, a long time past. I still miss him." Gold laid both hands flat on the bar. "I'd like to help you, Mrs. Jones."

Emma stared at him narrowly. "Why?"

He tipped one shoulder in the masterpiece of a dismissive shrug. "I understand that some years ago, you may have known a man by the name of Neal Cassidy?"

Hearing her ex-boyfriend's name was even more of a shock that Emma had anticipated. _How much digging has he done into my past? _Again, hoping very much that her discomposure didn't show on her face, she repeated, "Why?"

Gold shrugged again. "I want to find him. You want to find your boy. I think we can both work for each other. Don't you agree it might be possible?"

"I literally met you five seconds ago and you're asking me if you can snap your fingers and succeed where the entire city of Boston police force is drawing a blank? Here's the thing, I don't make a habit of going around taking life advice from sketchy men I meet in bars. I don't know anything about you. Who you are or what you – "

With a brief, economical motion, Gold palmed a plain white business card into her hand. "You may have heard of me. By day, I'm a family practice attorney. Tax plans, business succession, inheritance disputes, divorce. My rates are very reasonable and – yes, Mrs. Jones? All of a sudden you look rather troubled."

"Of course I'm fucking troubled, you asshat," Emma said through her teeth. "My son is _missing."_

Gold made a reproachful = noise. "That's not at all the way to speak to someone who's interested in making a deal with you. Here all by yourself, drowning your sorrows. . . you wouldn't be if the search was going well, would you? _And _you're here without your husband. My keen sense of things – strictly professional, of course – is that you're sailing bumpy waters, so to speak. Are you _quite_ sure that you're not at all interested in my services?"

Emma hesitated. She wanted to throw her drink in his face and tell him he was nuts and should never contact her again, but she was at her wit's end. The police had no idea where Henry was, Killian had walked out on her, Milah was terrified, and so was Emma. Of losing their family. Of losing everything. She was staring down a very long and dark and deep rabbit hole, and she had no idea how deep it went. She'd probably heartily regret this in the morning, but that was later. Tonight, alone and abandoned and angry and heartbroken, she had to take matters into her own hands.

She blew out a breath. Then picked up her drink and polished off the dregs in one long, burning slug.

"All right," she said, low and rasping. "I'm listening."


	2. Chapter 2

**One Less Bell To Answer [Part 2]**

* * *

_And if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere. It's up to you, New York, New York. . ._

She hated that fucking song. Really. Hated it. If she ever happened to acquire a time machine, she'd go back and kill Frank Sinatra before he recorded it, thus achieving the most spectacularly petty victory in the history of mankind. It was stupid, really. If she _really _stumbled into a time machine, she'd go back to May twelfth and wait right at the very spot Henry always got off the bus, so nobody ever had a chance to grab him and make off with him. And then go find whoever it was, whoever had just been lurking around the corner, and beat the ever-living tar out of them. She was reaching the end of her tether. And it was because of it that she was here, squinting dubiously at a handwritten address as she strode up a street in SoHo, dodging hipsters in square black glasses and skinny jeans with every step. She was not looking forward to this. She was _so_ not looking forward to this. But Robert Gold's was the only offer she had on the table.

Desperate measures.

Emma turned the corner and stopped outside a row of industrial loft houses, bodegas and bakeries and boutiques crammed to every side, as the typically horrible New York traffic jostled by in a sea of cabs and horns. This looked like it. How her ex had done well enough for himself to snag a _tres chic _apartment like this, when the last time they'd known each other he'd been barely one step above jailbird. . . yeah, no. She wasn't here to have a friendly catch-up chat. For whatever reason, Gold wanted to talk to him, and Neal Cassidy was apparently very interested in energetic uncooperation. That was Emma's part of the deal. Use her bail-bondsman skills to track him down, find out where he was living, and get him to pay the piper.

It hadn't been all that hard. She'd jumped a budget-airlines flight from Logan to LaGuardia, and told Ruby that she was helping the police work the case to find Henry; Ruby had been happy to stay a few nights in the family townhouse with Milah. But when she'd called Killian, there was no answer. She'd hit redial so many times, standing in the airport with her phone pressed to her ear so hard it left marks, that she almost missed the final boarding announcement for her flight. He just hadn't picked up. He'd never ignored her calls like that, never ignored _her _like that before. When she went into labor with Milah, he'd canceled three meetings, a teleconference, and an editorial review session, then nearly caused multiple traffic accidents as he raced across Boston at rush hour to be with her in the hospital. Of course, he hadn't _had _to, seeing as their daughter wasn't born for another eleven hours. But it was the thought that counted.

Apparently, those days were over with. He really was leaving her.

Emma realized that the world was blurring, and wiped her eyes viciously. Pulled herself together. Fine. She'd do this alone. No different than how she'd had to do everything before she met him. Before she met Neal, really. He was the first person who'd ever been her partner. Not that she was nostalgic. The end of their relationship hadn't been pretty. And if it was her, having her ex drop in out of the blue after almost fifteen years wouldn't be welcome. Especially with some random guy in tow. Robert Gold had taken the train down to join her, and was currently sitting around the corner in a coffee shop, waiting for her all-clear to proceed.

Emma opened the front door and strolled in casually, then went to the wall and scanned the mailbox listings. Ran her finger along them, heart thudding, realizing that she wasn't nearly as blasé about this as she would like to be. 403, 404, 405. Someone came thumping down the stairs and she started, but they didn't give her a second look. 406.

407. No name. The only one that didn't.

Emma raised an eyebrow, then took a chance. She pressed it. It buzzed, and then she heard a speaker click on. An indistinct voice said, "Yeah?"

"Package delivery. UPS."

There was a very long, very fraught silence. Nothing happened. No answer.

Emma swore under her breath, thought about hitting the button again, then walked up to the grate, jammed her arm through, and fumbled with the lock until it finally realized that she was more stubborn than it was. It gave out, and she shoved it open, climbing four flights of stairs like the Terminator in smite mode. She was winded when she reached the top, but she didn't care. She regained a bare modicum of dignity, then headed down the hall to apartment 407.

Still no answer when she rapped on the door. She could probably break in here as well if she needed to, but someone had answered the buzzer. Someone was in here, hiding, and if finding her son might depend on this, Emma wasn't about to pussyfoot around. She banged on the door with both fists. "Hey!" she yelled. "Open up! I know you're in there!"

Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that if this _wasn't _Neal, but a reclusive local artist who liked to hide from his public or something, he was probably dialing the NYPD right now and she'd be in for a chauffeured ride downtown with the city's finest. That would be a bitch to explain, but everyone seemed to assume that bereaved mothers were irrational by nature, so she'd play up that card. The Amber Alert for Henry had gone out through the entire New England area, they'd be familiar with the case.

But she knew Neal. He'd never been one for confrontation – at least, not directly. When they broke up, not long after the first time she slept with Killian, he played the "I'm so martyred because my girlfriend cheated on me" hangdog card for all it was worth. First he tried to make her feel guilty for leaving him, then told her he had done nothing wrong, even though he'd tried to set her up to take the fall for all his convenience store heists. He'd done a pretty fucking good job, too. Emma had been handcuffed and marched out of her freshman-year finals by armed policemen, and taken downtown, where she was bullied, threatened, and terrorized for hours with variants of the "we know you did it, and we're going to destroy your life unless you confess" rap line. She'd never known there was so much lucre in sticking up hapless graveyard-shifters at 7-Eleven, but it transpired that one of Neal's previous capers had involved lifting twenty thousand dollars in Cartier watches. That, to say the least, was of a crime more of interest to the law, and to Emma as well; apparently she was dating (or had been) a wannabe Al Capone. Since Neal had split on her and run, she nearly got expelled from BC, nearly got convicted of a felony and sent to jail, nearly ruined her entire future, only saved by Killian confirming her alibi that she'd been otherwise occupied with him on the night in question. All because her ex, apparently with the emotional capacity of an eggcup, was bitter that she'd upgraded.

It was, therefore, fairly obvious why Emma wasn't eager to see him again.

Still, there was Henry to think of, and she wasn't about to back down now. She glanced at her watch. Thirty more seconds. Thirty seconds, and then she was coming in whether he liked it or not. She couldn't hear any sirens, so presumably the blue weren't (yet) on their way to lock her up. So she took a deep breath, flexed her fingers in anticipation of having to unleash a schooling, then reached for the doorknob and –

Just as she was about to yank on it, it suddenly jerked open from the other side, and Emma found herself directly face-to-face with the business end of a pistol, being pointed in her face by a slender, elegant dark-skinned woman, her long black hair swept attractively out of her eyes, which were currently fixed dead on the interloper. When she saw it was only one woman alone, instead of – whatever she'd expected – she quickly lowered it and smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry. Can I help you?"

"Yeah. What the hell was that about?" Emma wasn't entirely up on the gun laws of New York City, but she was pretty sure that if you couldn't have an oversized soda, you couldn't be packing heat on strangers in a SoHo loft – this wasn't a pretty and useless little derringer, but a Magnum that looked capable of inflicting serious damage. "Does Neal Cassidy live here, please?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "What do you want with him?"

"Look, lady. It's important, all right?" Emma's tact skills had never won any "Plays Nicely With Others" awards in school. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Excuse me. I happen to be his _fiancée. _Tamara. And you are?"

It was on the tip of Emma's tongue to say _his old girlfriend, _but she was getting the feeling that that would not be the best tack to take with Annie Oakley here. "It's not important. Do you always answer the door like that?"

The other woman's eyes narrowed. "I was. . . expecting someone."

"Not the Spanish Inquisition, probably. I promise I will leave and get our of your lives as soon as possible, if you just let me talk to him for three seconds." Hoping to sound marginally friendlier, she added, "My name's Emma Jones. My son's missing. Henry. He's ten. Have you seen anything about it on the news around here?"

Something flickered in Tamara's face. Then she said, also in a somewhat friendlier tone, "No, I'm sorry. That must be terrible for you. But I still don't understand why you're _here."_

"I. . . had a favor to do." Emma glanced over her shoulder at the shut bedroom door. If she knew anything about her ex, Neal was in there, letting his fiancée handle this entire thing for him. Running away from confrontation again. "Excuse me."

And with that, not bothering to ask permission, she strode across the creaking hardwood floor and rapped hard on the door. "You. Open up. We need to talk."

There was a very long silence. Emma could feel eyes boring into the back of her head, and didn't want to turn and see if Tamara had drawn her gun again. Then abruptly, the door jerked open, and there he was, all scruffy six feet of him, looking aghast. "Emma? What the hell! How did you find me? Do you think you can just walk into my life after over a decade and – "

Tamara's eyes went narrow. "You _know _her?"

"Yeah. We used to be together," Neal sighed, apparently oblivious to the minefield. "Then she dumped me for pretty boy and things went downhill. I didn't ever think I'd see her again."

"Yeah, possibly because you tried to pin _your _crime on me?" Emma's voice was not sounding nearly as professional as she would have liked. "In what world is that an acceptable response to breaking up, exactly?"

Neal held both hands out in front of him. "Look, don't bite my head off, okay? It was complicated. And besides, it's in the past, let's all just move on. And then _you _tell me what you're doing here, because I have to say, you kind of look like a jealous ex."

"You wish. Like I care what a guy I dated a decade ago is doing with his life." Emma held out her left hand. "For your information, I'm marriedto 'pretty boy.' Our son Henry went missing two weeks ago. That's why I'm here."

Neal guffawed. "You _married _that guy? And how did that work out for you?"

Rather than concede the point, Emma bit her lip. "Never mind," she said, brittle. "Neal, I need you to do me a favor. It'll take five minutes of your time and then I promise, we never have to see each other again. There's a guy downstairs who'd like to talk to you. If you do, he'll help me look for my son. Can you, if you ever cared about me at all, please do this?"

"What?" Neal scratched his tousled dark curls, then grinned. "Really, Emma? You're gonna come in here begging for my help and ask if I ever loved you and do a favor for you, then act like it's nothing? Come on. What's this really about? I'm guessing you and dreamboat had a pretty big fight, huh? Be honest. Why isn't he here with you, if you're both so worried about getting your kid back? Not that I blame you, but seriously. Little honesty?"

"It's none of your business, all right? Just – " Emma struggled for the words. "Please."

"Hey, it's okay." Neal shrugged. "It makes me kind of happy to know that I can do something for you that he can't, you know? Because frankly, I'm not sure you chose all that wisely."

"Neal. For the love of God. We are not here to talk about our relationship. You know, our relationship that ended over ten years ago when you tried to have me sent to jail for your crime. And considering that, I'd say I picked pretty damn well. Just go down. And. Talk. To Him."

Neal looked wary. "What's his name?"

Emma hesitated, but there was nothing for it. "Robert Gold."

"Robert _Gold?" _Neal froze. "You _brought him here?"_

"Yes, actually, I did. I don't know what's between you two, and I don't care, but just give him five minutes of your time and then we'll both be – "

"Five _minutes? _Are you _crazy? _After what that guy did to me, after everything?" Neal looked as if she'd asked to climb him into a pit full of tarantulas. "Do you think I want to talk to _him?"_

"Neal. You hear the whistling sound?"

"What whistling sound?"

"The sound of the irony flying right over your head. You really think I was all that hot to talk to _you? _But I did it. Fine, if this is what you want to hear, this is me asking for your help."

Neal stood stock still, then whirled away. "I'm not the bad guy," he said to the ceiling. "You're the one who showed up here. It's not like I don't want you to find your kid. I do, all right? But I'm not having anything to do with him. Now or ever."

"Why?" Emma pleaded. _"Why?" _

"Look. If you really have to know." Neal's shoulders were hunched. "He's my dad, all right?"

"Your. . . what?" Emma stared. She did remember Gold telling her how his son had run away from home, and how this had made him sympathetic to the parents of missing children, and then. . . she felt like an idiot, she should have guessed this long before. Why else would Gold be so interested in Neal? But she'd somehow assumed that it was different, related (so to speak) to something else. "Neal, I. . . please. Five minutes, okay? Please."

He was silent, staring at the wall. Tamara moved protectively toward him.

"All right," Neal said at last, in a tight, flat, toneless voice. "Five minutes. But I want you both out of here, and I don't want to answer any questions about it. Got it?"

"Fine." Emma stepped out, pulled out her phone, and punched in the number on the business card. By the speed with which it was picked up, she knew that Gold had just been sitting tensely in one of the 255 Manhattan Starbucks locations, waiting for her.

"Mrs. Jones?"

"Hi. He's here. And he's not really thrilled about seeing you, but he's given you five minutes. I suggest hurrying up and getting here before he changes his mind."

"I'm on my way." She could already hear the chair scraping, the thump of his cane, the whoosh as he opened the door and the dull rumble of traffic. "What's the address?"

Emma gave it to him, then hung up. She waited until the downstairs buzzer went off, then gave Neal a pointed glare until he sighed and hit it. A few minutes later, they heard the old elevator bumping up to the fourth floor, and footsteps approaching down the hall.

Emma opened the door for Gold, then gave Tamara a look and jerked her head, and both of them stepped out of the apartment as Gold shut the door behind them. They could hear the indistinct rumble of the men's voices, low and angry on Neal's part, pleading and cajoling on Gold's. Emma was gratified to see that Tamara looked as off her footing as she felt; apparently, Neal had not been in the full disclosure business with her either. Her curiosity was burning, but she forced herself to stand still until Neal could be distinctly heard to say, "All right. That was five minutes. Time to go."

Emma glanced back at Tamara again, wondering if it had been Gold that they had been expecting in the first place – hence the pistol. But even for a bitterly estranged father and son, that seemed odd. Would Neal really be sending his fiancée out to pack heat on the chance of putting a bullet through his old man's head? That seemed. . . well. . . she just didn't think he was capable of it. Neal was a lot of things, but not a cold-blooded murderer.

Before she could puzzle over it any more, the door opened, and Gold limped out, looking unhappy. Apparently, he hadn't been able to convince Neal to extend their get-together any longer. He shot a long look at Emma, as if this was somehow _her _fault, and then said in an undertone, "Talk to him. Convince him to come to Boston with us."

"Are you out of your _mind?"_

"Do you want me to help find Henry or not?"

"Look, compadre. I held up my end of the bargain. I came down here with you, I found him, I got him to talk to you. Nothing else. You can't go changing the deal now."

Gold's eyes held hers. "Can't I?"

"No," Emma said, as steadily as she could manage. "You can't. If you're going to start lying to me and manipulating me and trying to hold God knows what over my head, then you're on your own, and in fact I'm going to understand exactly why Neal ditched on you like he did on me. I'm not here to get your son back for you if you can't be man enough to do it yourself and fess up to your own mistakes. I'm not in this for you. I'm in this for my family and _my_ son. Period."

Gold blinked, then gave a small, terse smile, an acknowledgement of the gambit. "You do make yourself most clear, Mrs. Jones," he mused. "I respect that. But don't you think there's something else here? Something just that bit peculiar. The whole situation. . . it seems strange."

Emma's first response was to bite back something sarcastic, but it died an uneasy death in her throat as she was forced to admit that, as she had just been thinking, it did. Tamara greeting her with a pistol to her face, that strange look when Emma had mentioned Henry. . . it _could _have all been coincidence, but Emma Swan Jones did not believe in coincidence.

"All right," she said. "We'll look into this. But on the DL, all right? Neither Neal or Tamara is all that happy to think we're up in their business, and if we look like we're going away. . . just trust me on this. Besides. I need to get back to Boston and see my daughter and make sure Ruby hasn't burned down the house or anything, and. . ."

"And?" Gold prompted, when the silence threatened to turn consuming.

Emma set her jaw grimly. "I need to talk to my husband."

* * *

It was a quiet trip out of Manhattan. They took a cab to LaGuardia and managed to book two standby tickets on the next regional puddle-jumper, and were waiting wearily at the Logan International bus terminal by eight PM that night. Emma had been doing some work on the way up, running her old hacker algorithms and software trackers, some of the same stuff she'd used to find Neal, and by tracing Killian's recent credit card transactions, had located him in a downtown Boston hotel, right by the waterfront. So, parting from Gold with a chilly farewell, she hopped the SL1 bus, straightened her hair and makeup so she didn't look _quite _as much as if she'd been traveling all day, and headed inside.

The receptionist couldn't tell her exactly which room Killian was in, something to do with consumer privacy laws (and probably also to avoid this exact scenario, when estranged spouses came rolling in with vengeance on their mind) and it was a big hotel. She couldn't exactly wander down halls knocking on doors. So she retired to the bar for a sip or two, keeping an eagle eye on the front foyer. Somehow she didn't think he'd come here just to hole up and surf the Net. He was probably out. He'd have to come back sometime.

At last, near midnight, just as Emma was running out of ideas and patience, she spotted him. He was crossing the atrium, alone, hair rumpled and shoulders slumped, wearing the long black leather jacket he liked to break out of storage when he thought there was ass-kicking to be done; it made him look like a very sexy pirate. For a moment, her heart ached with her longing to go to him and wrap her arms around him, rest her head on his chest and breathe the scent of that jacket, the one she'd always teased him about before. But here, now, wearing it, it looked right. . . and strange, stranger than ever. Like he was more than ever someone she didn't know.

Emma palmed a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar, figuring it would cover her tab – she hadn't had more than two drinks – and slid off her stool, following him at a distance as he stepped into the elevator. She saw which floor he pressed the button for, then turned off and darted through the door into the stairwell, taking them three or four at a time, blood pumping and whooshing through her ears. She was tired, so fucking tired, but she couldn't stop. Not now. Not yet

She reached the sixth floor and pushed through into the dimly lit hallway, just as she heard the elevator ding. Killian's lean, dark silhouette strode out, and she stole stealthily after him. He was just reaching into his wallet for a key card, when she stepped up and grabbed his arm.

He spun around with a strangled yelp and a scathing curse, blue eyes wide and staring. His face was dirty, a long bloody scrape etched along one cheekbone, and it was his old Irish brawling instincts that flared to the surface as he instinctively shoved at her, before realizing who she was. "Bloody hell! Bloody _hell! _Emma, what. . . what in _damnation _are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here? Expecting someone else, maybe?" Oh God, no.

Killian's face went hard. "I wasn't entertaining, if that's what you mean. I was out."

"So was I." She hadn't let go of his arm, her fingernails digging into his flesh. Even if she was still furious with him, it was the first time she'd touched him in days, and with the relationship they had, their closeness, their physicality, how they lived in each other's bodies as much as their own, it felt like the first time she'd breathed since he'd walked out the door. "I tried to call you. You weren't answering."

That handsome face remained glasslike, imperturbable. "I was busy."

"Feel like telling me about it?"

"Not like this, God's sake." He jerked his arm out of her grip, leaving her feeling as bereft as if he'd ripped away a chunk of her own flesh, and swiped the key card. The door light flashed green, and he made a sardonic gesture. "My humble abode awaits, m'lady."

Biting her lip, Emma followed him into the dark hotel room. Why did he always have to be such a sarcastic bastard, the freaking captain of everything? Killian was the world's most tender romantic when he took a mind to it, but he was also independent, enigmatic, and not always scrupulous. He was nothing but honorable and protective to her and their family, but he saw the world much as she did, as something that couldn't necessarily be trusted and wasn't entitled to expect a damn thing from him. He didn't mind causing pain if he had to. And now. . .

Emma perched on the starchily clean bed, feeling as nervous as a teenager on prom night, as Killian hit the lights, drew the drapes, and deadbolted the door, taking a rather deliberately long time about the whole thing. Then he turned back and leaned insouciantly on the desk, dark blue gaze burningly intense on hers. "So," he said. "Shall we flip a coin for who gets to speak first?"

"I don't want to play games." Emma kept her eyes on her hands for as long as she could, before lifting them to his. It felt like a punch in the chest. "I tried to call you about a dozen times before I left. I went down to New York today, with a guy named Robert Gold and – "

"Robert Gold?" Killian interrupted. A muscle was going in his cheek. "Robert as 'the most infamous divorce lawyer in Boston' Gold? Aye, now that's a wonderful – "

"_Just listen!" _Emma snapped. "We met by accident, I can assure you I wasn't heading over to his office with an assets disclosure and a custody proposal and telling him to get the papers going. He wanted my help to find someone from his past. His son. In return, he offered to help me find mine."

"That's bloody convenient." Killian's lips were grim. "I don't want you working with him. He's a belly-crawling reptile. User. Ambulance-chaser. Sue his own aged grandmother if there was a profit in it. Unless, of course, you _do _want to divorce me, in which case – "

"I told you to shut up!" Emma rose to her feet, advancing on him. "You don't get to tell me what to do, not when you've been MIA for weeks and ignoring my calls and otherwise doing a really damn good impression of not wanting to – "

"And I told _you _I was out, I was looking for Henry too, following up a lead that – "

"You didn't tell – "

"You didn't either – "

He was in her way, utterly obnoxious and immovable and infuriating, and she'd had enough of him. She reached out with both hands and shoved him hard in the chest, making him stumble, and he tried to catch her wrists and push her away. But she was past that, she wasn't going to take it, and she shoved him again. Sometimes they'd acted like this before, when he was playing the pirate captain ravishing his captive, but never in earnest. Her blood was throbbing behind her eyes, and she desperately wanted him to crack, to break, to come down to her, or else just fuck off once and for all. She couldn't take this hovering, this ghost of what was, this shadow of himself, or herself. She just couldn't take this pain.

Emma heard herself starting to sob as she hit him again, hammering on his chest with both fists, a geyser of anger and frustration and agony blowing its top, until he threw both arms around her and pinioned her hard between his body and the wall, her back jamming hard against it. He held her there, the look in his eyes unlike anything she'd seen before, as she kept futilely trying to hit him. His knee wedged between her legs, and despite everything, how much she wanted to kill him and hide the body in the mattress to make an excellent urban legend, her breath was much too short, her need for him too raw, her soul worn too ragged. If he tried to kiss her, she'd bite his lips off. . . but their heads were pressed together, their noses, their face, as she could hear him swearing, as she swore back at him, whispering the words against the white line of the scar against his cheek, as if her words herself were cutting into him. His hand came up, caressing the back of her neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair, cupping her skull, long fingers behind her ear, pulling her head up. "Bloody bitch," he growled, and covered her mouth with his.

Emma, true to her word, did her level best to bite him. He slapped her, not hard but hard enough, and she hit him back. He grunted, but didn't desist, kissing her rough and deep and hot, his lips pillaging hers, forcing her to yield to them. Her mouth opened to gasp, and his tongue darted in, tasting her as she tasted him, teeth scraping, both of them panting heavily, his other hand wedging down the waistband of her jeans and helping himself to a healthy handful of ass, scooping her body up against his until all their lines were tangled and blurred and broken. Then he spun her around, hoisted her up with an arm under her knee in some parody of how he'd carried her over the threshold as a newlywed, and hauled her toward the bed.

Emma cursed at him again as he threw her down on her back and straddled her, knees pinning her to either side, as he shucked off the jacket and threw it to the floor, his well-muscled arms straining against the sweaty cloth of his shirt. She ran both of her hands up the hard flat plane of his stomach – _God _he was so beautiful, had always been as beautiful as he was the world's biggest bastard – and groped at him, fingers blind, chest heaving as he undid her blouse and ripped straight through her Victoria's Secret sale bra. Trying to stop him would be like stepping into the path of a tornado, and she herself didn't want him to. She wanted to fight him back just as hard, to show him that he wasn't going to win this, he wasn't going to fuck her and get her to shut up and drop it. She raked her fingernails along his back, getting a handful of dark hair and forcing his head down to hers, as they kissed and swore and gasped, until he wrenched loose and began to mouth a burning trail down collarbone to breasts, biting at them almost hard enough to hurt, his hot lips leaving livid crescents on her pale skin. His weight came down on top of her as he sprawled between her legs, which she locked over his back. He wasn't getting the upper hand here any way you cared to cut it.

Slowly, Killian moved lower and lower, fumbling at the button of her jeans, then unzipping them and making total hash of her panties. Emma writhed as his mouth pressed between her legs, his talented tongue circling her clit and then darting into her, teasing her slick folds until she gasped and jerked her hips up, desperate to maintain the friction. He gave her an utterly devilish look and kept fucking her slowly, knocking down her hands when she tried to grab at him. She almost whimpered with need, swearing at him extremely feebly, until he moved up to kiss her again, and she tasted herself on his lips. His arousal ground into her through his jeans, until she decided that she'd had quite enough of being the only half-naked one here. She clawed at them, tugging them off, then shucked his boxers, palming his hard silky length and circling her thumb around the tip, tightening her grip and making him gasp when he tried to get free. Sitting up, she swung around on him and pushed him flat, then straddled him, still holding onto him and allowing him only the barest, delirious inch inside her. He jerked, trying to achieve (so to speak) the whole banana, but she wouldn't let him, rasping against him, her inner walls hot and pulsing, and –

The instant she let go of him, he moved. He rose up under her like a cyclone and flipped her over onto hands and knees, then thrust into her hard, hands closing over hers as they clutched at the sheet, tearing it off. Her body leaped and jerked as he filled her, his weight on top of her, pressing her down, as he rode her hard and hot and mercilessly, his mouth printing her neck, his hand sliding down the silky skin of her stomach, as he stimulated places inside her she didn't even know existed, as she saw stars and brightness and heard herself whimpering, moaning his name. As he pulled out and turned her back, then sheathed himself in her wetness again, to the hilt. Even after so many times, it never ceased to amaze her how perfectly they fit, as if their bodies had been designed to complete the other's – he was big enough to pleasantly stretch her, to vanish in her depths, to drown with her. Their thighs tangled together, tense and straining, as he braced himself on one elbow, lips curled back over his white teeth, her fingers tangling through the dark fur covering his solidly muscled chest, pulling at a nipple, hiking her knee up to change the angle of his penetration, as he rode her and she owned him, both of their breathing catching in short shallow gasps, harder and harder, groaning, until she hissed, _"Fuck you,_" and he gasped, _"I bloody am, love – thought you'd noticed – " _and they both let go altogether, tumbling and tumbling in the sweaty sheets into a blazing sky of stars.

Emma's orgasm was so hard that it almost folded her in half, an origami swan, paper and ink and torn pieces. She wrapped her arms around his back as he collapsed full on top of her, his own release hot and jerking inside her, his breath stirring the soaking hair matted to her cheek, her fingernails still dragging at his back. They lay there until at last he groaned again and pulled out of her with a soft wet sound. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Bloody, bloody, _bloody _hell."

Emma's own conversational contributions were not remarkably more scintillating, or even extant. She just kept panting, then finally sat up, half naked, clothes scattered everywhere, hair down and falling in her eyes in luscious pale waves. "Son of a bitch."

Killian leered at her. "And don't you know it, darling."

"Shut up," she grumbled, but without heat. Her hands were already finding him, cupping his head, drawing him back for another kiss, as they sighed and gasped and pressed closer, flesh to flesh, his heart thudding comfortably by her ear. She only pulled away when the need for air became urgent, and he laid his head on her stomach. She sighed again and began to stroke his thick dark hair, her fingers tracing ley lines across his skull.

God. She loved him. Nearly as much as she hated him.

"So," he said at last, his voice buzzing into her hips, that low throaty whisper he used only in the afterglow like this. "You tell me the details about where you've been, I'll tell you mine."

Emma was tempted to argue, but decided against it. As concisely as possible, she acquainted him with where she'd been and what she'd done. His angry little grunt at hearing it was Neal she'd been rubbing shoulders with made her inordinately gleeful; she had no problem with him being jealous. "Fine," she said. "Where have you been?"

"Tracking some idiot named Greg Mendel." He turned his head to plant a considering kiss against her hipbone, then bit it lightly, making her yelp. "Got a tip from one of my old friends that he might know something about it. I didn't get as much as I'd like, but I did hear the bugger talking on the phone with someone. A woman, I think. They were on about arranging delivery of the package, and. . . something about it seemed a bit strange."

Emma tensed. _A woman. _"Did you happen to hear her name? This person Greg was talking to?"

"I think." Killian frowned. "Teresa? No, that wasn't it. Tammy?"

A surge of freezing adrenaline shot through her. _"Tamara?"_

"Tamara! Aye, that was it." Killian snapped his fingers. "Why? What?"

"That was her. Neal's fiancée. Something struck me about her, like she knew more than she was saying. When I mentioned Henry. . ."

The Joneses stared at each other as the truth dawned on both of them. Emma's heart started to hammer under her ribs again, but not from the horizontal mambo they'd just been performing with such vigor. She shoved Killian off her and sat bolt upright. "Did you hear it? Where they were planning to arrange this. . . delivery?"

"Aye." Killian, cottoning on, shot upright as well. "Tomorrow – well, this morning, at dawn. Down in the abandoned warehouses by the wharves."

Emma didn't answer. It was past one AM, and she was functioning on the bare minimum of sleep, but she was already standing up, throwing on her hastily discarded clothes. She could barely think, barely see. There might be time. It might not be too late.

Killian was dressing just as hastily. "Your gun," he said. "I have it. In the car."

"Thanks." Before, Emma might have been extremely irritated that he'd taken it without asking her, but now she was just grateful that he had it. With one look, they'd already determined that they weren't going to call the police. There was vengeance to be dealt tonight, and they were going to be the ones to do it. Zero hour.

Time to go.

* * *

The warehouses were a forbidding, spectral maze when Killian and Emma pulled up. They had to proceed on foot, keeping close together, heads pivoting in all directions as they tried to make out the hint of any other human figure. It was an eerie industrial hinterland, lights shining occasional pools of bleached fluorescent glow, but otherwise dark as pitch. They kept on going, Emma with her hand on the gun, Killian tensed like a stalking panther, ready to spring.

Nothing. Nothing. This was a stupid idea. They should have called the cops after all, brought an entire SWAT squad with them. But when they – if they – came face to face with the people who had kidnapped their son, there was no saying what they might do. Even –

"_Hssst!" _Killian seized Emma's sleeve as she made to move around a corner. _"There!"_

She swallowed back a small scream at how abruptly he'd grabbed her, and looked, easing out just the barest inch. There was in fact someone else standing at the end of the nearest wharf, in a general clandestine attitude. Tall. A man.

Emma glanced back at her husband questioningly. _Greg?_

Just the barest inch, Killian nodded.

Emma felt her gorge rise. She had no proof, she had nothing, but she wanted to run out there right now and open fire. Kill him. Take the life of another human being in cold blood. In fact, she might have done it, if not for Killian's hand burning into her wrist, holding her back. _Wait._

She couldn't say how long they skulked there, pressed flat, barely breathing. The summer night was warm and somnolent. Then at last, they heard the sound of a car, coming closer and stopping. The driver's side door opened, and a woman stepped out.

Emma recognized the silhouette at once. It was her. Tamara.

Before she had enough time to get over the shock of being proved right, Tamara moved to the back seat, opened that door and pulled out something small and squirming. Duct tape over the mouth, eyes wide and terrified, black hair standing up in fistfuls. And as Tamara carried him into the faint light, Emma felt her heart and stomach turn over.

_Henry._

"Got him?" Greg asked, unnecessarily. "They'll be here in twenty minutes. I wish we could have done this right away – delays, you know, they'll be onto us – but I shook him."

"Who?" Tamara looked alarmed.

"Creep tailing me. Don't know if he was a detective or what, but the case has been all over the news. Thanks for hiding him down in New York, you know. If the boss could just get this all – "

Emma and Killian exchanged a look. One look. And knew each other's mind.

In unison, they burst out from behind the pillar. Emma swung her gun up.

"Oy, you fucking arsehole!" Killian barked, and Greg and Tamara's heads swung around in almost comical surprise. Killian himself unsheathed a long, thin rapier from his jacket. He'd been in the fencing club in university, and no mean hand with it. Emma, however, had never actually thought he'd draw it on someone in anger. Had never thought a lot of things.

"I wasn't a bloody detective," Killian said. "I was his _father."_

And with that, both of them charged.

Tamara dropped Henry with a thunk, snatching for her own gun, and Emma ducked as the shot ripped apart the night, seeing nothing but her son. She kept running, whirled and fired back, but the figures were dark and struggling and she was terrified of hitting Killian by mistake. Greg was trying to meet him head to head, but Killian was beating bloody hell out of him, rapier whistling and lancing, as Tamara squared to fire again. She'd just gotten the shot off – there was an indistinct sound, a grunt, oh God it had hit someone – when Emma plowed into her.

The two women began to fight hand to hand, grappling and punching, Tamara circling to cut Emma off, Emma bull-rushing her, grabbing her arm and throwing her hard. She brought up a knee, slamming it into Tamara's gut, then reversed with a backhand, sending her tumbling. In the precious few moments of time this bought her, Emma wasted none of it. She rushed forward, threw herself to her knees at her son's side, and pulled the duct tape off, then hauled him into her arms, shaking, shielding him with her own body.

"Mom?" Henry couldn't believe it, believe his eyes. "Mom!" He started to cry, short scared sobs, as she pulled him up and hugged him harder, spinning around and preparing to fight off the rest of them. Tamara was down, stirring feebly, so Emma strode to her and clocked her smartly over the head. She stopped moving.

Emma stared around madly through the darkness. Greg was on his knees, wheezing, out of commission but still dangerous. And Killian –

Oh God.

No.

Clutching Henry close to her side, she began to run. Killian was on his back, one hand pressed to his stomach, a spreading pool of dark red staining the deck where he was sprawled. He tried to reach up for her, grunting her name, but his arm fell back. A hazy smile spread across his face as he saw his son. "Henry. . ."

"Dad?" Henry's voice was thin and terrified. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, lad. Nothing. It's fine. You're safe. Everything's all right."

Emma stared at him. The world felt thick and sludgy and slow. _No. _She couldn't. No. Couldn't carry him back up the wharves in time, couldn't save him, couldn't lose him. She was already fumbling for her phone, as Henry lifted Killian's head into his lap and patted at him anxiously. "Dad? Dad. Look at me. Dad! It's okay. I'm not scared. Really. I'm okay. Dad! You're going to be okay too, right? Dad!"

The world had become nothing except them. Her family. Her husband. Her son. Her daughter, back at home and safely asleep. And how close she had come – still was – to losing all of them.

Emma dialed three numbers and lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello, operator," she said, with a calmness far beyond anything she had ever expected or dreamed. "I need an ambulance right now."

* * *

It was getting light by the time the gurney was offloaded at Boston General Hospital and rushed inside by the paramedics, Killian motionless beneath the sheet, on oxygen, blood livid scarlet on the white. Emma and Henry stood hugging each other, refusing to be parted for even a moment, as the police and the detectives swarmed them, wanting to take their statement. Greg and Tamara were sitting in the back of a cruiser in handcuffs, both of them bloodied and bruised but not permanently damaged. Emma was trying to explain what happened, but her brain was disengaged, not functioning. It was only with Killian, who'd been taken straightaway into emergency surgery. He'd lost a lot of blood, and who knew what the bullet had hit. They hadn't met her eyes in the ambulance when she begged to know what the prognosis was.

Somehow, she managed to find a phone, call Ruby, wake her up, give her an utterly nonsensical explanation, and tell her to wake up Milah and come downtown right away. Ruby, naturally, was stunned, but agreed. Emma sank into a chair, still holding Henry, stroking his hair, smelling him, holding him, breathing his little-boy scent, checking him for any injuries.

Twenty minutes later, the waiting-room door flew open, and Ruby, still in her pajamas and bathrobe, ran in, clutching Milah's hand. "Oh my God! Emma! Henry! What? _What?"_

"Mama!" Milah broke loose and sprinted toward Emma, burying her face in her mother's lap. Emma clutched at her, arms full of both of her children, never wanting to let them go again. _Killian. Oh God. Killian. _No. She wasn't going to become a widow like this. If he ever died, it would only be because she killed him herself.

The morning went on. Ruby went home to get dressed and fetch some fresh clothes for Emma and the kids. She had just gotten back when finally, the chief surgeon appeared. "Mrs. Jones?"

Heart in her throat, Emma shot to her feet. "Yes?"

"Your husband's fine," the surgeon told her gently. "He's resting. He's out of the woods for now, but he's got a long road to rehab ahead of him. You can have five minutes, but try not to upset him."

"Daddy?" Milah looked stunned, staring up at Emma. "Is Daddy hurt?"

"The bad people shot him when we were trying to rescue your brother, baby." Emma's voice, despite her best efforts, cracked and almost broke. "We have to be quiet, okay?"

With that, she gripped Milah with one hand and Henry with the other. The surgeon was going to have to know Krav Maga if he thought he was preventing her from taking her kids with her. Barely breathing, she stepped through the door and down the sterile white corridor, into the curtained recovery room that smelled like medicine and chemicals and blood.

Killian was lying in a hospital bed, threaded with tubes and masks and ventilators. At the sound of their approach, he struggled to look up at them, turning his head the barest bit, painfully. His lips formed a word, but she couldn't tell what it was.

"Daddy?" Milah gasped. She turned to Emma and clutched her around the waist.

"Dad?" Henry's voice trembled.

"I'm. . . fine," Killian husked. He managed a grin for them. "Really. Just a bit. . . detained."

"Why did they want to take you?" Milah turned to stare at her brother. "The bad people?"

"I don't know." Henry looked troubled. "They were talking about some others. Home Office. They had some boss they were afraid of. They were trying to get me for him."

"I don't like them," Milah snapped. "I'm gonna _kill _them. Or just kick them in the butt really hard."

Killian croaked an agonized laugh. "Aye," he whispered. "That's my girl."

"You're not supposed to be talking," Emma told him sternly. "We only have five minutes, we're not supposed to exert you." And then, despite herself, she could feel her own tears coming up. "You idiot, you _idiot, _you scared me to _death!"_

He raised a dark eyebrow apologetically.

"I don't. . . I can't. I can't live without you." Emma moved closer, letting go of the kids long enough to gently caress her husband's face. "I just. . . I. . . let's not. Let's not even try. Now or ever again.."

He smiled up at her, his blue eyes glittering. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then he let out a slow, shuddering sigh. His hand came up, and caught hers, pressing it to his lips.

"All right, darling," he breathed. "Let's not."


End file.
